The Day is Gone
by Valiance
Summary: After Ahriman's first defeat, Elika cannot forgive, and she cannot forget.


The Prince couldn't sleep.

Moonlight filtered into the small, windowless hut. It was a clear night outside, and, if he cared to look, he supposed a sea of stars would greet him. Soon they would be wiped from the sky by the darkness like chalk drawings, but not yet. Tonight, despite that, he had eyes only for Elika, for the steady rise and fall of her living body.

"I know you're watching me." Elika spoke so suddenly he really did see stars when he jumped and hit his head on the packed mud-and-sand wall. She didn't open her eyes.

His mind mentally ran through a list of excuses, but he knew his lies would be transparent to her. When he didn't answer, she cracked open a dark eye. "Stop it."

No need; he already had, staring somewhere on the ground. She'd been regaining her strength since... well, _since_. He wouldn't think about it. That was the past, long gone. This, since midnight had long come and gone, would be the seventh day. Seven days for Ahriman to cloak the land; seven days, though he had yet to reach this remote hut.

"How're you feeling?" the Prince ventured when she'd closed her eyes again.

She sighed, a breathy, heavy exhale through her nose. He could only imagine how she felt – but not physically. It didn't take a genius: the fire-bright anger of her eyes, the way she could not bear to look at him, the bitter twist of her lips. When she spoke, it was to snap, or else not at all. She hated him; her saviour, the one who had condemned the world to the god of darkness.

Those seven days ago, they had fled from the shadow of Ahriman to this hut. It belonged to a man the Prince knew – 'an old acquaintance', he'd said. But whoever it was, they'd long since gone. That didn't surprise Elika – of course this man would associate with cowards, scurrying away at the first sign of danger. Likely a criminal, too, judging by how far removed the place was. It was a perfect hiding place, although the Prince insisted he was just a hermit.

"I'll take that as a sign you're fine," the Prince said when no answer came. The moon caught his grin, etched out the scar on his face, not quite reaching his eyes. Nothing ever did.

Elika eased herself upright in a rustle of blankets. Her movements were slow, deliberate. It felt like all her energy had left her, since – _since_–

"How dare you," she began. "How dare you sit and grin like an idiot. All this... Ahriman has won because of you."

Never had he argued that fact. It was his utter lack of remorse that angered Elika, that he thought he was somehow justified, that reversing her sacrifice for thousands of people and sacrificing them _instead_ was logical. She should have listened to herself in the beginning: he was a selfish fool, a thoughtless idiot, a thief who could not even let her decide her own life and death.

"Get your Ormazd to do his job and send him back," the Prince leaned back against the wall, lacing his arms behind his head. He'd uncoiled his 'lucky' scarf from his head, removed his gauntlet, but was otherwise fully clothed. His sword was propped ready and waiting by the bed. His hair, the shaggy mess that it was, was even more so than usual – it hung into his eyes, shadowed them. He ran a hand through the dark mess in agitation. "We've worn this conversation out to the bone."

"That's because you know the answer, yet you would insist on passing blame to the gods," Elika said, pushing herself off the bed. The Prince made a jerky movement somewhere between leaning to help and not, which turned to scratching his rugged jaw. Her hot glare never left him. "Ormazd is gone. It is my responsibility to uphold his wishes."

The Prince stopped his scratching and threw up his hands. "There you go again. That word. Responsibility... duty, obligation. It's all you think about. Think about _yourself _for a while."

But she wasn't listening. She sprang to her feet, all thoughts of tiredness gone, snatching his his pack from the end of the bed. She threw open cupboards, found food, a drinking flask, basic condiments for travel. Then she stopped and turned to him. "Selfishness on your part is why Ahriman is out there right now. There is no room for any more. Now it falls to me to undo _your_ mistakes, because _you_ can't stop thinking about yourself!"

The Prince sprang to his feet. "But _I_--"

She levelled him a cool glare. They looked at each other for a moment, faces bathed in half-light, both as unreadable as the other. Then there was a rustle of fabric, fluttering of the curtain: Elika had brushed it aside from the door frame and vanished into the night.

"Hey!"

She was gone. He made a grab for his sword and gauntlet, hurriedly draping his scarf over his shoulders as he followed her out.

The stars were immense; bright but cold, like shattered glass sprinkled over ink. Cold, thanks to Ahriman. But the moon was enough to illuminate the great vastness. Around the hut, desert stretched, and behind the hut there rose foothills extending into rocky mountains.

The flatness of the sandy expanse was interrupted by a trail of indentations. Their maker was some ways ahead, white shirt visible against the night. Back straight, head held high, she did not look back.

"_Hey_!" he called again. Nothing.

He ran after her, a little clumsily at first, sandals sinking into the sand. Even when he caught pace she was silent.

"Listen," he said, somewhat short on breath. "You won't last long out here alone."

Elika stopped short, eyes fixed intently on the empty horizon. "If you're suggesting I can't take care of myself--"

"No," the Prince said quickly. "No. Even if I did at first, I think after all we went through... I know that's not true better than anyone."

She finally looked at that familiar upturn of the lips, the ever-amused look in his eye, and wondered if there was any sincerity in it. To her, he was simply cold. "I thought I knew you, too," she began. Her voice was even, but it concealed the barely-contained rage in her veins. "Knew you well enough to think you would leave Ahriman imprisoned. I thought you a better man than one who bargains with gods for his own gain. I don't even know your name. I don't know you at all. The good man I knew is dead to me, or perhaps I only ever imagined him."

The Prince lifted his chin, so she could better see his eyes beneath the shadows. There was a long, strained silence, stretching and stretching until it almost snapped.

Then he said, "I didn't want you to die."

She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. "You--"

"And I still don't. So let me at least get you out of this desert. Do what you want from there. Gather your old pals who skipped off and left their king and princess to fend for themselves. Wasn't that what you were planning to do?"

He avoided her gaze as he spoke, nonchalantly refastening and winding his scarf about his head. She was a little taken aback at his sudden change. "I – yes," she said rather lamely.

When he finished, his gaze was hard and cold like the sky. "Then let's go. We'll want to be out of here by sunrise."

He took the lead, not waiting for her reply. She stared at his retreating back, the intricate design of his thin jacket. That was it, then. They were strangers. It made something sink inside her a little, a familiar sinking she tried to force away, hide from. She took a breath, a breath to forget, and followed the stranger out into the bleakness.

At sunrise they would go their separate ways.


End file.
